


Conversations with Wesley

by carry_on_my_wayward_wesley



Series: Full Circle [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carry_on_my_wayward_wesley/pseuds/carry_on_my_wayward_wesley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the heart and mind of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce through the years, as the people in his life learn about his thoughts, feelings, secrets, and fears through their conversations with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More than Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes words provide encouragement, and sometimes silence is the best way to develop understanding. The day after the Ascension, a still-recovering Wesley learns the value of both.

The late afternoon sun spilled through the window, casting a bright yellow glow onto the bed where Wesley lay sleeping. The light filtered through the blinds, falling across the sheets in elongated stripes and creeping up the bed as the sun dipped lower. A single sunbeam landed on Wesley’s face, waking him with its intrusive brightness. Flinching, he reached for the remote controls on the side of the bed, fumbling blindly until his fingers found the triangle shape he knew was the UP arrow. He pressed the button, raising himself to a half-sitting position to get the sun out of his eyes. Annoyed at being woken up, he glowered at the window as he yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey,” said a familiar voice to his left.

Wesley turned toward the voice and saw Cordelia sitting in a chair beside the bed, an open magazine in her lap.

“Cordelia,” Wesley said, his irritation forgotten. “Hi.”

She smiled at him and set her reading material aside, placing it next to the half dozen other magazines on the side table.

Wesley eyed the stack, then looked at Cordy. “Have you been here long?”

“A while, yeah,” she said. “You looked really peaceful sleeping. I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“Mm,” he nodded his understanding. “Nice of you to stick around.”

“Well I wanted to see you again before you leave,” Cordelia said. “I wanted to tell you I thought it was really neat what you did yesterday. Joining the fight, I mean.”

“Oh. Um...thank you,” Wesley murmured. He lowered his eyes, looking suddenly shamefaced. “Not like I did much good, though.”

“What do you mean?” Cordy asked.

“I got knocked out right at the beginning of the battle,” Wesley told her. “Didn’t even have a chance to fight.”

“Yeah?” Cordelia shrugged. “That’s okay. You know what that makes you?”

Wesley leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling with a frustrated sigh. “Bloody useless, as always.”

“Hey!” Cordelia’s unexpectedly sharp tone drew his attention back to her. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not useless. You’re _brilliant._ And you’re a total sweetheart.”

Wesley looked down, blushing, a little uncomfortable with the praise.

“I mean it,” Cordy insisted. “And don’t think I’m just saying nice things because I have a crush on you, cuz lemme tell you pal, after that _way_ awkward kiss, that is _all_ over. _Done_. That ship has _sailed._ ”

“You’re not making me feel any better,” Wesley said.

“You got hurt before you could fight,” Cordy said. “What that makes you is a casualty. This hospital’s full of ’em today. In case you didn’t notice, we were fighting a giant snake and a couple dozen vampires. It was chaos out there. So you got knocked out early. So did a lot of people. Big deal. The important thing is, _you were there_. It’s hard to feel much motivation to help when the little gang of good guys doesn’t want you around. Kinda know that from experience. So it meant a lot that you came back and helped anyway. I’m telling you, _as your friend,_ you are anything but useless, Wesley.”

She leaned back a little, regarding him with a sincere expression, and finally managed to coax a small, grateful smile onto his face.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

“Of course,” Cordelia said, returning the smile. "Now I've gotta know. What was it that convinced you to come back and help?"

"Ah," Wesley raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Well that was a very difficult night. After the fallout with Buffy, I went off alone to think some things through. I thought of everything that's gone wrong since I came here, everything I could have done—should have done—better. And finally I decided that none of it mattered anymore. That there's no use wasting time wondering what I might have done differently. I realized it was far more important to focus on what still needed to be done.”

"Wow," Cordelia said admiringly. "That's really mature." After a beat, she added, "I think that's way more heroic than anything you could've done in the actual battle."

Wesley thought that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it was encouraging to know there was at least one person in this damn town who didn't see him as a coward and a weakling.

Outside, the sun continued its downward descent, brightening the room as it crossed directly in front of the window, and Cordelia glanced down to check her watch.

"I'm gonna have to leave in a few minutes," she said. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"Not that I can..." Wesley trailed off. "...think of." He looked up at her. "Actually...there is...one thing."

“Sure," Cordy said. "What is it?”

Wesley clenched his jaw hesitantly, then gestured to the wheelchair in the corner. “Will you take me down to go see Faith?”

Confusion, fear, and anger flickered across Cordelia’s face in rapid succession. But the look in Wesley's eyes—his quiet, almost pleading gaze—was enough to convince her how much it meant to him. Her expression softened, and she nodded. “Of course.”

She retrieved the wheelchair from the corner and unfolded it as she brought it over to him. Wesley pushed the covers aside and sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Cordy glanced at him as she locked the wheels into place, noticing his green-and-white striped pajama bottoms and black t-shirt.

“Where’d the clothes come from?” she asked.

“They’re mine,” Wesley said. He braced his arms against the edge of the mattress and carefully pushed himself up. “I asked Giles to stop by my flat and bring them for me, and he was kind enough to oblige.”

Cordelia took his arm to steady him as he got situated in the wheelchair. The metal footrests felt cold beneath his bare feet, but Wesley didn’t mind much. He was just glad to be out of bed. The tube from his IV trailed behind him, and Cordy unhooked the bag from the pole and hung it on one of the handles of the wheelchair.

“So you don’t like hospital gowns either, huh?” she asked.

“No,” Wesley shook his head. “They’re too uncomfortable and too...revealing.”

“Amen to that,” Cordelia said emphatically. She made sure he was settled, then unlocked the wheels and maneuvered the chair through the door. “I’ve spent enough time in this place to know what that’s like.”

“You have?” he looked over his shoulder at her as she wheeled him down the hallway.

“Mhm,” she smiled wryly, stopping in front of the elevators. “One of the _many_ perks of growing up on a Hellmouth.”

The elevator doors opened, and Wesley and Cordelia both fell silent during the short ride down. A growing sense of dread crept up on them as they reached the ground floor and made their way toward Faith’s room.

The comatose Slayer came into view as they neared the doorway, and Wesley felt the wheelchair slow, betraying the trepidation Cordelia was trying to hide.

“I can make my way from here,” he said quietly. “If you’d rather not...”

Cordy stopped, considering it for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It’s okay.”

She wheeled him the rest of the way into the room and positioned him close to Faith’s bed. Wesley stiffened, growing very somber at the sight of the pale, wounded Slayer. Behind him, he felt the light touch of Cordelia’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna go,” she whispered, a slight tremor in her voice.

Wesley reached up and brushed his fingers against hers in silent acknowledgement. Then Cordelia was gone, and Wesley found himself marveling at Faith’s ability to evoke such fear from people even while she lay near death.

He fixed his eyes on the girl in the bed, taking in every detail—the bruises on her face, the tubes in her arms, the machines keeping her alive—and felt a heaviness on his shoulders, the weight of responsibility bearing down on him.

How had everything gone so horribly wrong? How much of it was his fault?

_None of it matters anymore. There's no use wondering what I might have done differently._

It felt easy saying those words to Cordelia ten minutes ago. Hell, those were the words that spurred him to action less than two days ago. Now, as he sat only inches away from his greatest failure, those same words echoed back through his head, taunting him.

He sat alone with her for some time, pensive in the solitude of his own thoughts. After a long while, he spotted movement in his peripheral vision. Without turning to look, he flicked his eyes to the right, toward the source of the movement. At this angle, he could just see the doorway reflected in the small window set into the wall across from the foot of Faith’s bed.

The figure in the doorway paused—clearly surprised to find someone else in Faith’s room—then turned to go.

“You don’t have to leave on my account, Buffy,” Wesley said quietly.

Buffy stopped and turned back. “How’d you—”

“Saw your reflection in the glass,” he gestured to the window.

“Oh,” Buffy said. She entered the room a little hesitantly.

From the corner of his eye, Wesley saw her pull up a chair and sit down a few feet away. She seemed to be keeping her distance—whether from him or from Faith, he wasn't quite sure. But he knew there had always been a gap between himself and Buffy. A gap in age, in life experiences, in personalities, and—perhaps most damaging of all—in understanding. Now that gap seemed to be manifesting physically.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Buffy shifted uncomfortably in her seat every few seconds. Wesley was perfectly still, elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair, chin propped on his fists, eyes fixed on Faith.

“They say that a person in a coma can hear everything going on around them,” Wesley said at last. “They say you should talk to them.”

Buffy tilted her head and gave him a questioning look he didn't see.

“I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour,” Wesley added after a moment. He turned to Buffy, looking at her for the first time since she came in. “And I can’t think of a _damn_ thing to say to her.”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She looked down, then at Faith, then finally back at Wesley.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I get that.”

Wesley studied her for a moment. Their eyes met, and something like understanding passed between them. “I suppose you do.”

He turned back to Faith and fell into contemplative silence once again.

Buffy's chair made a scraping sound against the tiled floor as she pulled it closer.


	2. Tougher than I Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she had said that to him a year ago, it would have been a backhanded compliment, delivered grudgingly with a noticeably derisive undertone. Tonight the young Slayer radiated pure sincerity. Perhaps, Wesley thought, Buffy had grown and changed just as much as he had since the last time they saw each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right where "Sanctuary" left off

“I hope she’s strong enough to make it,” Wesley said, looking toward the hallway. “Peace is not an easy thing to find.”

“She has a chance,” Angel said.

Wesley turned to him. “I suppose you know that better than most. About finding peace, I mean.”

The vampire nodded. He stood leaning against the bulletin board, brow furrowed and arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, he looked up at Wesley. “You still have my car keys?”

“Yes,” Wesley started to reach into his pocket for them. “Here.”

“No,” Angel waved him off. “It’s late. You should go home. Take the car, you can bring it back on Monday.”

“All right,” Wesley put the keys back in his pocket. “You’re not going back to the office?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you going to do?” Wesley asked.

“I’m gonna...” Angel looked around in aimless frustration, then let out a deep sigh and walked off down the hallway without finishing his sentence.

Go brood some more, probably.

 _You’ve no room to talk._ Wesley reminded himself as he made his way downstairs. _You spent the whole day brooding at the bar._

He and Angel really were a couple of brooding demon hunters. Although it was probably a little melodramatic to unironically identify oneself in that manner. Wesley grimaced, remembering Cordelia’s party where he had done just that. Had it really only been two months since then? Only two months since the bumbling, clumsy, socially inept former Watcher came into Angel’s employ? It seemed so far away. Everything prior to last night seemed far away, like it had happened a long time ago, to someone else. Wesley felt much older.

He reached the foot of the stairs, and when he pushed open the front door and emerged into the still, smog-filled Los Angeles night, he was surprised to see Buffy standing outside, leaning against the concrete pillar by the entrance.

“Buffy,” he said blankly. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Hey, Wes,” Buffy acknowledged him. “I’m just...trying to figure some stuff out.”

“Of course,” Wesley said understandingly. “It’s been a rough week for all of us. Seeing Faith again, after all this time.”

“She caused so much damage,” Buffy said. “She hurt so many people. And I’m gonna take a guess and say she’s also responsible for the current arrangement of your face.”

Wesley reached up and touched one of the wounds on his cheek. “Yes.”

“You fought her?” Buffy asked.

Wesley snorted. “D'you really think I could take a Slayer?”

“Then what—”

Slowly, a little self-consciously, Wesley grasped the hem of his shirt and lifted it up, revealing his bruised ribs and the long jagged cuts the broken glass had left on his chest.

Hot anger flashed in Buffy’s eyes when she saw what Faith had done to their former Watcher. “She tortured you.”

Wesley nodded. He let go of his shirt, and it fell back into place.

Buffy closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. Opening them again, she looked at him. “When?”

“Last night.”

“And you’re already back on your feet?” Buffy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You’re tougher than I thought, Wes.”

If she had said that to him a year ago, it would have been a backhanded compliment, delivered grudgingly with a noticeably derisive undertone. Tonight the young Slayer radiated pure sincerity. Perhaps, Wesley thought, Buffy had grown and changed just as much as he had since the last time they saw each other.

Wesley put his hands in his pockets, and Buffy looked out at the cars passing on the street.

“What did the Council offer you?” Buffy asked after a while. “In exchange for Faith?”

Wesley looked up at her, but didn’t respond.

“Your old job back?” she guessed.

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you do it?” Buffy asked quietly.

It was Wesley’s turn to look surprised. Buffy knew as well as he did what the Council’s Elite was capable of.

“I’m not saying I think you should have,” Buffy clarified. “I’m just wondering…” She took a step toward him, her eyes roaming his face, taking in every cut and bruise. “Why _didn’t_ you?”

Wesley opened his mouth, a hundred explanations springing to his mind. The words didn’t come, and he looked away, casting about for a way to verbalize why he made the decision he did. Finally he gave up trying and simply gestured to the doors he had just come through.

“Angel.”

Buffy leaned back against the pillar with a sigh. “Yeah. _Angel_.”

“You don’t think Faith deserves a shot at redemption?” Wesley asked.

“I don’t know what I think, Wes,” Buffy said. “Faith wants to turn good all of a sudden, Angel’s helping her, you’re—god, you’re double-crossing the _Watchers Council._ It’s like everything here got turned upside down and thrown into some kind of...chaos blender.”

Wesley let out a quiet, wry chuckle. “There is some truth in that.”

“It’s just a lot to process,” Buffy said.

Wesley nodded his agreement, and they lapsed into silence for a while longer, until a more practical question occurred to him.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said.”Yeah, the, uh...the bus station.”

Wesley produced the keys from his pocket and nodded to the car. Buffy opened the door and got in, and Wesley went around to the driver’s side and did the same. He started the ignition, shifted into first gear, and pulled out onto the highway. A few minutes later they were on the interstate, heading for the Greyhound station.

“What do you think will happen to those Council goons?” Buffy asked as she watched the exit ramps whiz by.

“They’re not likely to face any kind of retribution for trying to kill Faith, if that’s what you mean,” Wesley said, speaking up a little to be heard over the traffic.

“I think they were _ordered_ to kill her," Buffy said. “Tonight wasn’t their first try.”

“Ah, yes. I heard about that,” Wesley said. “Evidently she cleaned their clocks the last time.”

Buffy gave him a sideways glance and the barest hint of a smile. “Guess you didn’t hear the whole story.”

“No?”

“Faith got her hands on some kind of magical doohickey that let her switch bodies with whoever she wanted,” Buffy explained.

“A Draconian Katra,” Wesley supplied the name. “I’ve heard of them.”

Buffy looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to put the pieces together. Her smile widened as she saw the look of dawning realization on his face.

“It was you,” he turned to her, incredulous. “You fought Weatherby and the others in Faith’s body.”

“Mhm,” Buffy nodded.

“Well, perhaps it’s petty of me,” Wesley admitted, “but I must say, I find that immensely satisfying.”

“Nah, that’s not petty,” Buffy waved a hand. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t _enjoy_ kicking their asses.”

“Probably almost as much as I enjoyed giving Weatherby a solid right hook,” Wesley said.

He knew that bringing it up was coming awfully close to bragging, verging on the arrogance he’d worked so hard to overcome, but he couldn’t resist. There was still some small part of him that wanted Buffy to acknowledge his competence.

“You punched one of them?” Buffy sounded impressed. She nodded approvingly. “Good for you.”

Wesley smiled, satisfied, and turned his attention back to the road. The flow of traffic was almost hypnotic, and he found himself growing very tired all of a sudden. He blinked a few times and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

Buffy noticed. “You okay, Wes?”

“I’m all right,” he said. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night. Which was a little surprising, honestly. When I got home after...everything, I wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, and then collapse into bed and pass out for a good long while.”

“Didn’t happen?” Buffy ventured a guess.

Wesley shook his head. “I got cleaned up, got into bed, and just...laid there. I was dead tired, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too much on your mind?” Buffy asked. “Brain wouldn’t shut down?”

“Mhm.”

“Been there,” she said sympathetically. “Plenty of times.”

“After a few hours tossing and turning, I just gave up,” Wesley went on. He yawned again. “I was all right for most of today...”

“You’ve probably been running on adrenaline all day,” Buffy said.

“Yes,” Wesley agreed. “But now that things have settled down a little...”

“—Exhaustion just hit you like a ton of bricks?” Buffy finished.

“Quite.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Been there too.”

“We’re almost there,” Wesley pointed to the green sign up ahead and merged into the exit lane. A few minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the Greyhound station. Wesley shut off the engine and looked over at the line of people by the ticket window.

“What does it cost to get back to Sunnydale from here?” he asked Buffy.

“One-way ticket’s about thirty bucks,” she answered.

Wesley reached in his pocket and withdrew some cash from his wallet.

“No, Wes,” Buffy tried to protest. “You don’t have to—I have money…”

He pressed the bills into her palm, quietly insistent, and after a moment’s hesitation, Buffy accepted.

“Thank you.”

“C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” Wesley said, getting out of the car.

Buffy followed suit, and they crossed the parking lot to the ticket window. While Buffy stood in line, Wesley disappeared into the small lobby nearby. When he came out a few minutes later, Buffy met him, ticket in hand, and eyed the Styrofoam cup he was holding.

“Coffee,” he said, taking a sip. “Bit of caffeine for the road.”

“I hope you’re planning to go home and get some rest,” Buffy said.

“I am,” Wesley assured her. “I’m going to take a few very strong painkillers and then—hopefully—sleep for an entire day.”

“You deserve it,” Buffy said. After a pause, she extended her hand. “Goodbye, Wesley.”

Most people who knew the Slayer would have probably found it a little odd to see her offering a handshake. It seemed too formal for the independent and spirited girl, but Wesley recognized the gesture for what it was—she was finally returning the greeting she had denied him the day they met.

He took the offered hand and shook it firmly. “Goodbye, Buffy.”


	3. Everything that Means Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley and Cordelia share a quiet moment in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little missing scene from "To Shanshu in LA"

“I saw them all,” the simple statement, whispered in a hoarse, deeply grieved voice, carried the weight of all the horrors Cordelia had been forced to witness under Vocah’s curse.

On either side of the bed, Angel and Wesley held her hands, comforting her.

“There is so much pain,” she looked up at Angel, her brown eyes pleading. “We have to help them.”

“We will,” Angel promised, squeezing her hand. "We will."

Cordelia swallowed and blinked back tears. To her right, she felt Wesley gently caressing her other hand, and she turned her head to look at him.

“Wesley,” she murmured. “You got hurt, too.”

“I’ll be all right,” he said softly.

“You were almost blown up,” Cordelia said, her voice tight. “It isn’t fair. You’ve been through so much already. You got tortured by Faith. You got fired from the Council. You’re so strong. You lost everything that meant anything to you, and you just keep fighting.”

Wesley tightened his grip on her hand. “Everything that means anything to me is right here, in this room. If I _am_ strong—”

“You are,” Cordelia said.

“—then it’s only because of the strength the two of you have given me,” he finished. He looked up at Angel, and the vampire smiled at him.

Cordelia brought Wesley’s hand up to her face and kissed his fingers. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, and she closed her eyes and fought back a yawn. “I’m so tired.”

“You should get some sleep,” Angel said.

She nodded and nestled down into the pillows, finally letting the exhaustion take over. As Cordelia began to drift off, Angel went around to the other side of the bed and stood behind Wesley’s wheelchair.

“You too, Wes,” he said, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re looking pretty worn out yourself. I can take you back to your room.”

Wesley reached up with his free hand and placed it on top of Angel’s. “Not just yet, thank you,” he murmured. “I’d like to stay here a little longer.”

Angel was silent a moment, and Wesley thought he might argue, but the vampire simply nodded. “Okay. I’ll go get us some coffee.”

He left the room without a sound, and Wesley nudged his wheelchair a little closer to the bed. Cordelia stirred, and she squeezed his hand and looked at him through half-closed lids.

“You don’t have to stay with me, Wesley,” she said. “I understand if you’re tired.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her, massaging his thumb over the back of her hand. “I want to be here.”

“Well, in that case...” Cordy pulled her hand free and shifted her weight, moving over to create some space on the bed. She patted the empty sheets next to her. “C’mere.”

“You’re sure?” Wesley asked.

“There’s room,” she said, pushing the covers aside. “C’mon.”

Slowly, with a slight wince, Wesley pushed himself up from his wheelchair, got into the bed beside her, and pulled the sheets back over them. He lay back against the pillows and slid his arm around Cordy’s shoulders. Turning on her side, she laid her head on his chest and breathed a contented, utterly exhausted sigh.

Wesley held her close and looked down at her with fondness, marveling at the way his boyish crush had turned into one of the closest friendships he’d ever had.

“Hm.”

“What?” Cordelia asked without opening her eyes.

“Oh,” he said, startled. “I didn’t realize you were still awake. I was just thinking about our...courtship in Sunnydale.”

“Courtship? What are you, eighty years old?”

Wesley smiled. “I was just thinking...I’m glad we didn’t work out romantically.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, snuggling deeper into the crook of his arm. “You make a better friend.”

“I think,” Wesley went on, “that the bond we’ve developed these last few months is a good deal stronger than what we had a year ago.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Cordy opened her eyes and looked up at him with a sleepy smile. “Plus you’re a really awkward kisser, so there’s that.”

“I’ve got better,” he protested. “I’ve had practice.”

“Mm,” she closed her eyes again. “Back of your hand doesn’t count.”

“ _Actual_ practice.”

“Whatever. You’re still a dork.”

“Yes, but I’m a dork who has the two greatest friends anyone could ever ask for,” Wesley said. He stroked her hair, and his voice grew softer. “So I think I’m doing all right.”

“Guess you are,” Cordy agreed, yawning again.

Wesley pulled her closer to him and kissed the top of her head. “Go to sleep.”

“You too,” she mumbled.

When Angel returned with two cups of coffee a few minutes later, he found Wesley and Cordelia sound asleep in each other’s arms.


	4. Beautiful Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia has a question for Wesley. One that doesn't have an easy answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a few days after "Untouched."

He knew what she wanted to ask him.

Wesley saw the curiosity in the furtive glances Cordelia cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. He saw it in the way she lingered when she brought him a file, like there was something she wanted to say. He saw it in the nervous way she scratched the back of her neck when he walked past her desk. Subtlety had never been a particular skill of hers.

He saw her curiosity, and he knew what she wanted to ask.

It went on all morning, and finally Wesley couldn’t take it anymore. The anticipation of waiting for her to work up the nerve to ask was worse than the thought of actually telling her. It was time to give her a little nudge.

Cordelia was sitting at her desk, creating a file for their newest case and trying her best to appear absorbed in the task. Wesley steeled himself for the ensuing conversation, and took the plunge.

“Something on your mind, Cordelia?”

“What?” Cordy looked up, startled. “Oh. Um...it’s not really any of my business.”

Wesley gave her a wry smile. “And when has that stopped you before?”

“Well, I mean...” she hesitated. “It’s kinda personal.”

“Again I ask, when has that stopped you?”

Cordelia sighed. Standing, she came around to the front of her desk. “I can’t stop thinking about the other day.”

Wesley removed his glasses, wiping the lenses on the corner of his shirt as he crossed the room. He folded the spectacles and slid them into his shirt pocket, and leaned against the desk beside Cordelia. “About Bethany, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Cordelia said. “The way you figured it out...I mean, I know you’re the smart one, and noticing things me and Angel overlook is kinda part of your job, but...you had almost nothing to go on. Just a couple of offhanded comments that anyone else would have found...totally unrelated.”

“Mm,” Wesley nodded. “And now you’re wondering if I might have personal experience with that same thing.”

Cordelia didn’t respond, but the question was clear in her eyes.

“Well you’re right,” Wesley said quietly. “I was molested as a child.”

Cordy’s breath caught in her throat, and she put a hand on his arm. “God, Wes, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve made peace with it. Mostly.”

“Who...” Cordy started to ask. “It wasn’t—”

“My father?” Wesley finished. “No. As horrible as he could be sometimes, there are certain lines I believe even he wouldn’t cross. It was a friend of his, actually. A man named Morton. He would come to visit my family whenever he was in town on business. We saw him about three or four times a year.”

“And it happened every time?” Cordelia asked, horrified.

Wesley nodded. “I was eight years old the first time. We’d spent the day in town. He always let me pick the places we went. I chose toy stores, ice cream shops, playgrounds...typical places a child would like to go. Morton was like the fun uncle who lets you do everything your parents don’t allow. So naturally I enjoyed spending time with him.”

“Sure,” Cordy said.

“Which is what made it so confusing when he started asking me to do things that made me uncomfortable,” Wesley said. “We’d gone to the cinemas to see a late movie, and afterward he took me back to his hotel suite, because it was too dark to drive the winding roads back to my parents’ estate. That was the excuse he gave me anyway. When we got up to his room, Morton wanted to take a shower, and he suggested I join him. _To save time,_ he said.”

Wesley was visibly shaking by this point. He closed his eyes and braced his arms against the desk behind him.

“Hey,” Cordelia put her hand on his clenched knuckles. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me the rest if you don’t want to.”

“No,” Wesley turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers. “I want you to know. It’s just...been a long time since I’ve talked about it.”

“Take your time,” Cordy said gently.

Wesley took a few deep, calming breaths and continued his story. “As you might imagine, at eight years old, I hadn’t fully developed a sense of modesty, so I thought nothing of it. We were standing under the running water when out of nowhere he reached down and touched my genitals. Then he asked me to touch his. I was...confused, obviously. Morton tried to quell my uncertainty by telling me it was a game. ‘Grown-ups play this game all the time, Wesley,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to play a grown-up game, Wesley?’”

“ _God!”_ Cordy whispered, shuddering with revulsion.

“He got out of the shower and left the bathroom without getting dressed, and he wouldn’t let me put any clothes on either,” Wesley continued. “He made me lay beside him on the bed, naked, and continued to touch me while we watched television.”

Cordelia grimaced.

“What followed was a lot of guilt-tripping and veiled threats, all wrapped up in kind words and benevolent gestures,” Wesley went on. “He was an incredibly skilled manipulator—made me feel guilty for not wanting to play his games, rewarded me with toys and candy and false praise when I went along with it. He knew exactly how to keep a small boy scared and silent and ashamed.”

Wesley lowered his head, his face wet with tears. He swallowed and reached up to brush away the moisture in his eyes, and Cordelia laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a comforting rub.

“Did you tell anyone what was happening?” she asked softly.

“Not for a long time,” Wesley said. “It went on for two and a half years before I finally worked up the courage to say something.”

“Why’d it take you so long?” The question had barely left Cordelia’s mouth before she realized how bad it sounded. “No. I’m sorry. You just explained why. You were a scared little kid who had no idea how to deal with the mind games some sicko was playing with you.”

“Yes, exactly,” Wesley nodded. “There was even a while where he had me convinced that I liked it, that I _wanted_ it.”

“Why would you ever think you wanted it?”

Coming from anyone else, the question could have easily been perceived as judgmental, verging on victim-blaming, but that wasn’t what Wesley heard in Cordelia’s voice, nor what he saw in her eyes. She only asked out of a genuine desire to understand.

“There were a few times I _asked_ if we could play his games,” Wesley explained. “Looking back as an adult, I can understand the logic—I knew it was going to happen no matter what, so instigating it myself made me feel a little more in control, not quite so helpless. I also figured the sooner we started, the sooner it would be over with. It makes sense to me now, but there was no way I could’ve articulated that reasoning as a child. So I started to believe Morton when he said I enjoyed it.”

Hot tears stung his eyes, and Wesley tilted his head back, looking up to the ceiling as he choked back a strangled whimper.

“I remember one time,” he went on, trembling. “It was the worst one of all. It went on much longer than usual, and it...hurt a good deal more. When it was over, I cried, and he pulled me close to him and whispered that there was no need to cry, because he was only doing what _I_ wanted, what _I_ asked him to do. At the time his voice sounded gentle and reassuring, but when I hear it echo in my memory, it’s...so very sinister.”

Cordy shuddered again. She pushed herself off the desk and paced the length of the room and back, breathing hard and practically boiling with rage. It was the kind of righteous anger that comes when a good person tries to process how another human being could commit such unspeakably evil atrocities.

Wesley watched her, silently wondering if he had said too much. The simple fact that he had been molested was all Cordelia really needed to know to understand how he figured out Bethany’s past so easily. The explicit details weren’t necessary, and speaking more than was necessary had never been Wesley's way.

But Wesley trusted Cordelia, and for a long time he had wanted, _needed,_ someone he could trust enough to tell the whole story without fear of judgment or shame. Cordelia was definitely that person, because telling her didn’t feel shameful at all. If anything, it felt freeing.

Cordy stopped finally and turned to him. “ _Please_ tell me this Morton guy got his eyeballs ripped out and force fed to him by some horrible demon, or something equally awful.”

“Nothing so devastating,” Wesley said. “He is dead, though. Died about a decade or so after I last saw him.”

“When was that?” Cordy asked. “The last time you saw him, I mean?”

“Just after my eleventh birthday,” Wesley answered. “As I said, it took that long to work up the courage to say something. I would have preferred to confide in my mother, but every time I even _thought_ about telling her, the overwhelming feeling of shame was just too much to bear. I knew if I was going to tell someone, it would have to be my father.”

“That couldn't have been easy,” Cordelia said.

Wesley nodded. “My father scared the hell out of me. But I knew I could use that to my advantage, because he scared the hell out of a lot of other people, too. So the way I figured it, if he didn’t believe me, he would call me a liar and I would be punished, which I was accustomed to. If he did believe me, he could put the fear of God in Morton and bring the whole terrible ordeal to an end. Essentially, it couldn’t get any worse—it could only stay the same or get better.”

Cordy shook her head in disbelief. “That’s an awful thing for a kid to have to accept.”

“My options weren’t ideal,” Wesley agreed. “But it was all I had to work with. I still remember the apprehension I felt that afternoon as I stood in front of my father’s study and knocked on the door. He called me in, and I approached his desk and told him I needed to talk about something extremely serious. Terrified, I stammered through a very detailed description of what Morton had been doing to me for the last few years. At the end of it, I broke down crying, which...wasn’t always the best thing to do in front of my father.”

“Jeez,” Cordelia muttered.

“Fortunately,” Wesley went on, “that day was different. To my surprise, my father believed me, and was properly horrified. When I began to cry, he came around the desk, knelt in front of me, hugged me, and promised he would make it stop. He let me cry on his shoulder and...actually comforted me. It seemed so uncharacteristic of him, but I wasn’t about to question it. I can count on one hand the number of times my father showed me genuine affection growing up, so that moment stands out. To this day, it’s one of the fondest memories I have of him.”

“Wow,” Cordelia was silent for a long moment. “Your dad is an asshole.”

“Ah...” Wesley didn’t disagree with that sentiment in general, he just wasn’t sure how it could be Cordelia’s takeaway from this particular story. “Well...he...what?”

“I’m sorry Wesley, but if one of your best memories of your father is from the day you told him you were _molested_ , then he must’ve been a really crappy person the rest of the time.”

“Credit where credit is due, Cordelia,” Wesley said. “He did put a stop to it. I don’t know exactly what he did, but we never saw Morton again. My father cut off all ties with his close friend to keep the man away from me, which was more than I expected him to do.”

“He showed basic human decency, and that was more than you expected from him?” Cordy asked, incredulous. “ _Tell me_ you see how screwed up that is, Wes!”

“I...um...” Wesley faltered.

Cordelia looked into his eyes, and her heart broke.

“Wesley,” she said quietly. “You have to know that.”

He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground for a long time. They stood across from each other. The silence that hung between them was all at once a solid barrier and an empty void. The silence contained everything Cordelia wanted to say, which was everything Wesley already knew. The silence held all the terrible truths he had accepted, and all the beautiful lies he was still clinging to.

It was time to let go of those lies once and for all.

“I don’t think he did it for me.”

It was a simple statement, but it was quite possibly the hardest thing Wesley had ever forced himself to admit.

“I’ve been holding on to that memory as...my last shred of hope that my father might have even the smallest bit of love for me in his heart,” Wesley said quietly. Tears of an entirely different sort slid down his cheeks, and he let them. “But deep down I think I’ve always known the truth. Whatever his reason, it wasn’t love. I doubt it was even concern for my well-being.”

Cordelia crossed the space between them and stood by his side again. “What do you think his real motivation was?”

“Could’ve been any number of things,” Wesley said, composing himself. “He’s always been concerned with status, so perhaps he was afraid I would tell someone else and _make our family look bad._ Or he might’ve done it to feel good about himself, so he could have something to point to as proof that he was a good father.”

“Yeah, because keeping your child away from a rapist is totally worthy of a Parent of the Year award,” Cordelia said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Not, you know...something any halfway decent person would do.”

“It’s an understatement to say my father has his own world view,” Wesley said.

“No kidding.”

“The horror he felt was likely real,” Wesley speculated. “But in the abstract, impersonal way that one might feel horror after hearing about something terrible on the evening news. Enough to properly shock him into a moment of kindness, maybe. But once he regained himself, it was like nothing happened. A few days later, he was back to yelling and criticizing and locking me under the stairs for minor offenses.”

“He didn’t bring it up again?” Cordelia asked. “Didn’t try to hold it over you?”

“I was afraid he might,” Wesley said. “But he never mentioned it again. Once when I was about fifteen, I rather cautiously broached the subject. Thanked him, actually, for putting a stop to it. He grumbled a sort of noncommittal acknowledgement and then changed the subject.”

“Wait a second,” Cordelia said, suddenly realizing something. “Was cutting ties with Morton all he did to put a stop to it?”

“As far as I know.”

“He didn’t press charges? Get the guy arrested?”

Wesley blinked, surprised, like the thought had never occurred to him before. “No.”

“Watchers are pretty influential, right?” Cordy asked. “Their word carries a lot of weight?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn't he do something?” Cordy asked. "He could’ve easily gotten that scumbag locked up for like eighty years if he’d given half a rat’s ass.”

"There would've been a trial. Press coverage. All very public," Wesley looked down. “I guess he really _didn’t_ want word getting out.”

“Yeah,” Cordy nodded. “And because of that, Morton was free to go off and probably do the same thing to other kids. Is _that_ your father’s world view? _It’s fine as long as it’s happening somewhere else? As long as I don’t have to know about it?_ ”

“I suppose,” Wesley said quietly.

“Your dad is an asshole,” Cordelia repeated. “And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that he’s an asshole?”

“No,” Cordy laid her hand on top of his. “I’m sorry I ruined one of the only good memories you have of him.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Wesley told her. “It needed to happen. That should never have _been_ a good memory.”

“Well, I’m also sorry I made you dredge up all of those awful memories in the first place,” Cordy said.

“You didn’t,” Wesley assured her. “It was the case—our encounter with Bethany—that did that. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for days. Talking about it has actually made it a little better.”

“I just can’t imagine how you could even begin to get past it,” Cordelia said.

“When I learned Morton had died, I looked up the cemetery where he was buried,” Wesley said. “And just before I left England, I visited his grave.”

“And spit on it, I hope,” Cordelia said.

Wesley smiled a little. “No, I just...talked to him. I sat in front of his headstone and told him how horrible he was, how much he hurt me, how hard it had been to untangle all of his mind games and realize that none of it was my fault. I told him how I used to believe I’d never escape him, but look at us now. _You’re dead_ , I told him. _I’m alive. And you will never have power over me again._ Then I went home, finished packing my things, and boarded a flight to Sunnydale the very next day.”

“Wow,” Cordy said quietly.

“It took a long time,” Wesley concluded. “But I’ve finally made peace with it.”

Cordelia remembered what he had said at the beginning of their talk. “Mostly?"

Wesley almost nodded, but he stopped himself and sat very still for a few seconds, thoughtful. Then his face took on a curious look, as if he was just realizing something important for the first time.

He felt suddenly as if the last chunk of a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders, and he turned to Cordelia with a look of revelation in his eyes.

“Completely.”


	5. Holy Water Bubbles of Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably best not to strategize when you've got morphine in your system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little uncertain about adding this one, because the setup is pretty similar to several earlier chapters (I like injured, sleepy Wesley. It's a weakness of mine). But it contains the very first bit of dialogue I ever wrote for the Buffyverse, so I felt that merited posting.
> 
> Takes place after "The Thin Dead Line"

The room was quiet. The blinds were drawn to keep out the early afternoon sun. Wesley had been moved from the recovery ward to a private room on the third floor of the hospital. Gunn and Cordelia had spent the better part of the week trading shifts, one of them manning the office while the other stayed with Wesley, keeping him company when he was awake and watching over him while he slept.

Cordelia was reading, curled up in an ugly patterned chair in the corner of the room and keeping a cursory eye on her friend, looking up every chapter or so to see how he was doing. Wesley hadn’t stirred in the two hours she’d been here.

Her stomach growled, and Cordelia slid a bookmark between the pages of her book and set it on the side table. She stood, planning to go downstairs and see if the cafeteria had anything remotely edible, when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. Sitting down again, she leaned forward and smiled at Wesley as he blinked his eyes open.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” she said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. Wesley’s eyes lit up, like they did every time he awoke and found his friends by his side.

“Hi,” he said.

“How you feeling?” Cordy asked.

“I feel very good, actually,” Wesley said, his voice thick with drug-induced haziness. “I’m quite comfortable. Rather odd to feel so nice after getting shot.”

“Not _that_ odd,” Cordy said. “They’re keeping you pretty heavily sedated. You’ve been _super_ out of it all week.”

“All week?” Wesley was confused. “What day is it?”

“It’s Friday,” Cordelia said.

“Mmm,” he said sluggishly. “Last I remember, it was Wednesday. What happened to Thursday?”

Cordy smiled. “You slept through it.”

“I seem to be doing a lot of that,” Wesley mumbled. “Sleeping.”

“You deserve every bit of it,” Cordy said. “And you need it, too. The more you sleep, the more energy your body can use for other stuff, like say...healing that hole in your gut.”

“Ah, yes,” Wesley gave her an ironic smile. “ _That._ Bloody nuisance is what it is.”

“Heavy on the _bloody,_ ” Cordelia responded with equal irony.

“Speaking of nuisances,” Wesley said. “How’s the demonic activity been lately? Have you and Charles had your hands full?”

“Couple of vampires,” Cordy said. “Oh, and I had a vision the other day. Karoth demon. Gunn turned it into goo. Overall, we’re doing pretty good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Wesley said. “You know, I have some ideas, things I’ve been mulling over that might help us fight vampires.”

“Yeah?” Cordy looked interested. “Like what?”

“What if,” Wesley said, wincing as he sat up a little, “we buy some bottles of bubbles and have a priest bless them? Then we rig up a few bubble machines and plant them in an alley or a warehouse. Then...we lure a group of vampires inside, and while they’re distracted fighting us, we switch on the machines. The vampires would be completely caught off guard. They’d never expect to meet their demise in the form of holy water bubbles of doom.”

Wesley grinned, eagerly awaiting Cordelia’s response. She stared at him for a long time.

“I think you need to go back to sleep, buddy,” she said at last. “Maybe let those happy drugs wear off a little more.”

“Hmm, what do you mean?”

“You actually just suggested using _holy water bubbles of doom_ to kill vampires,” Cordy said.

“You don’t think it would work?” Wesley asked, looking truly perplexed.

Cordy shook her head slowly.

Wes leaned back into the pillows and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Huh. Yes, Buffy didn’t seem to think so either when I recommended it back in Sunnydale.”

Cordy blinked. “Back in—wait, you mean you _weren’t_ on morphine when you had that idea?”

Wesley smiled sheepishly. “Uh...I believe you had a suggestion about going back to sleep? That sounds like a good idea.”

It was all Cordelia could do not to crack up laughing. “Yeah, why don’t you do that?”

With a yawn, Wesley nestled down into the pillows and closed his eyes. He turned so he was laying on his uninjured side and pulled the covers up to his shoulders.

Cordelia brushed her fingers through his hair, then stood to leave. Halfway to the door she stopped and turned around. There was something she needed to say, and she felt like it couldn’t wait.

“Wesley?” she ventured, unsure if he was still awake.

“Hm?” he mumbled.

“You know you’re loved, right?”

He opened his eyes and raised his head. “What brought that on?”

“Well…” Cordy sat down again and grasped his hand. “You’re my best friend and I love you. So does Gunn. You mean a lot to us. And...after everything that’s happened, I’ve been thinking maybe we don’t say it as much as we should.”

Wesley relaxed again. Wrapping both hands around hers, he said, “I love you too, Cordy. You and Charles both. The two of you mean a good deal more to me than I know how to express. It’s ironic, really. I’ve devoted a significant portion of my life to the study of languages, yet I’m no good with words.”

“You don’t have to be,” Cordy assured him. With her free hand, she traced her fingers ever so lightly across the sheets covering his abdomen. “Your actions tell us loud and clear how much you love us.”

Wesley smiled, glad to know they understood each other, and closed his eyes once more. Cordelia sat with him until she was sure he was asleep, then her growling stomach reminded her she had planned to go eat lunch. She stood up for a third time and dropped a kiss on Wesley’s forehead before leaving the room.

As she made her way down the hall, Cordelia reflected on their conversation, both the serious, affectionate part—how come their tender moments usually happened in hospitals, anyway?—and the silly part, which she was still having to restrain herself from laughing about.

 _Holy water bubbles of doom._ She smiled and shook her head. _Wait’ll Gunn hears about **that** one._


	6. I'm Glad You Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel, Wesley, and Cordelia attend Buffy’s funeral, and Wesley takes the opportunity to share some comforting words with Giles.

Angel knew the moment he saw Willow sitting in the lobby of the Hyperion that Buffy was gone.

Flanked by Wesley and Cordelia, the vampire sat in stoic, devastated silence as Willow tearfully told them about the battle that claimed Buffy’s life. Lorne and Gunn, tactfully recognizing that they were outsiders to this meeting, volunteered to take Fred upstairs and help her get settled.

The funeral was to be held the next day, with a graveside service immediately following. The Scoobies knew Angel would want to be there, and a phone call was too impersonal, so Giles had sent Willow to LA to deliver the news in person. Willow extended the invitation to Wesley and Cordelia, and they accepted.

Early the next morning, beneath heavy fog and a grey, misty sky, the small group emerged from the hotel wearing their nicest clothes, and made their way through the garden to the curb.

Angel got in his car and started the ignition, and Cordelia slid into the passenger seat beside him.

Willow stood by the curb, absently jingling Giles’ car keys in her hand. The small convertible sat parked behind the Plymouth, its bright red paint job a glaring contrast to the sorrowful task ahead of them. Wesley stopped beside her and looked at the empty vehicle.

“Willow,” he said quietly. “Would you like me to ride with you?”

She blinked, surprised by his offer. “Wouldn’t you rather be with them?” she asked, nodding to Angel and Cordelia.

“You shouldn’t have to make the drive alone while the rest of us have the comfort of companionship,” Wesley said.

Willow smiled warmly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

The drive north was a somber one. Wesley and Willow talked a little, mostly to keep the silence from becoming unbearable. They caught each other up on what their teams had been doing recently, sharing stories of enemies they had fought, battles they had won and lost, strange things they had seen, and the ways everyone had changed.

“You’re not like I remember,” Willow said. “You seem...”

“Less obnoxious?” Wesley suggested.

“I was gonna say more understanding,” Willow finished.

“Mm,” Wesley nodded. “It’s hard to remain...naive when you experience things that radically change your perspective. In Sunnydale, I thought I knew everything because I’d read so much and studied so hard at the Academy. Working with Angel, I’ve learned that book knowledge can’t compare to living in the world and experiencing it all firsthand.”

“Cordelia told me last night that you’re the new team leader,” Willow said. “You really have come a long way.”

"From what I hear, you've come quite a ways yourself," Wesley said. "I understand you've become proficient in some very advanced magics."

"I have," Willow confirmed. "And, I've uh...I've kept my promise."

Wesley looked confused. "What do you—oh," realization dawned on his face. "Oh. You mean...the promise you made to me."

Willow nodded.

"Ah," Wesley raised his eyebrows. He forgot sometimes that Willow knew about his childhood molestation. They had never talked about it again after that day in Giles' office.

"I've been tempted, a few times, to use memory spells," Willow admitted. "But then I remember that you made me promise not to, and I remember what you said...about how you can't fix problems by covering over them and pretending they didn't happen."

"It's true," Wesley said. "You can't."

"By the way," Willow hesitated, uncertain. "Did you—were you ever able to get any kind of help? Professional, or...even just someone to talk to?"

"I did, actually," Wesley said. "Last year I told Cordelia the whole story. She helped me find some closure I didn't even realize I needed. With her help I was finally able to accept some hard truths and make peace with it once and for all."

A slow smile spread across Willow's face, and she took her eyes off the road and regarded him warmly. "That's good. I'm really glad to hear that."

Wesley returned the smile, and they lapsed into silence. After a while, the smog and traffic of L.A. faded into the distance behind them, and the road stretched out ahead in bright, sunlit splendor. A green sign came into view, and Willow glanced up at it as they passed.

“Only 50 more miles,” she said. “We’ll be there soon.”

“I’ve thought before that I might like to go back to Sunnydale someday,” Wesley told her. He lowered his eyes. “I hoped it wouldn’t be for this reason, but I’ve always known it was a possibility.”

“We all did,” Willow said quietly.

An hour later, they pulled up in front of the Summers residence. There were already a few cars in the driveway, so Angel and Willow both parked on the curb. Angel emerged from his Plymouth and pulled his jacket over his head for the short walk to the covered porch, and the small party of new arrivals made their way up to the house.

When they got inside, they found everyone else there waiting for them. Angel, Wesley, and Cordelia exchanged somber greetings and a few hugs and handshakes with their old allies, and then it was time to begin making preparations.

The forecast for the entire week was bright and sunny, not at all suited to the occasion, Wesley thought, and certainly not convenient for its two undead attendees. But Willow had a solution. There was a spell, she said, that made vampires temporarily immune to sunlight.

After the service, as the funeral attendees filed out of the church to make their way to the cemetery, Willow pulled Angel and Spike aside and took them to a room off the foyer so she could cast the immunity spell for them.

The two vampires shared some brief, civil conversation while they waited for the spell to take effect. Afterwards, they left the church separately and did their best to keep their distance from one another, out of a desire to keep the peace. They both respected Buffy too much to fight at her funeral.

The graveside service was as beautiful as it was painful. The sun shone down on the cemetery as Buffy’s coffin was lowered into the ground, and the small assembly stood in a circle around the grave, shedding mournful tears as they said their goodbyes.

Wesley stood by Angel and Cordelia, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him in a silent display of respect.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Giles discreetly break away from the group. The Watcher retreated to a shaded spot beneath a tree a short distance away and stood alone, his face lined with untold pain and heartbreak.

Wesley stood still for a moment, indecisive, then finally stepped back and turned to head that direction. He had only made it a few steps when he felt a hand catch his arm in a tight grip, and he turned to find Xander glaring at him.

“I think you want to let go of me, Xander,” Wesley said in a low voice, his tone almost threatening.

Surprise registered on Xander's face for an instant, then his gaze hardened again. “I think I don’t.”

Beside them, Willow gently tugged on her friend’s sleeve. “Xander...”

He maintained his grip for another few seconds. Finally, at Willow’s insistence, he relented and let go of Wesley’s arm. As Wesley walked away from them, he heard Willow quietly saying, “He’s changed, Xander. He’s not like he used to be.”

Wesley straightened his jacket and made his way over to the tree. Giles glanced at him as he approached, but made no other acknowledgement as the younger man joined him beneath the leafy canopy. Wesley clasped his hands behind his back and stood silent, his eyes fixed on the graveside gathering.

“The Watchers Council believes that a strong attachment to the Slayer is...unwise,” Wesley said at last. “Sentimental. Useless to the mission.”

Giles stiffened.

“They’re wrong,” Wesley said. “They’re fools,” he continued, almost spitting the word. “They’re so out of touch, so...doggedly bound to tradition, they’ve forgotten what it’s like out here, in the real world, outside of their board rooms and their safe walls. Buffy’s emotional ties gave her something to fight for. They’re what kept her alive this long.”

Wesley paused, watching for a response from Giles, a cue to either go on or go away. Giles closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trembling with barely contained grief on the verge of overflowing.

“For what it’s worth, Giles,” Wesley said softly. “I don’t believe you failed in your duty to protect her. She made a choice. And it was her love—for you, for her sister, for all of them—that gave her the strength to make that choice.”

Giles turned to him and spoke in the quiet, broken voice of a completely shattered man.

“I know.”

Wesley put his hand on Giles’ shoulder and gripped it tightly. “I’m _so sorry_ ,” he whispered.

He held on a moment longer, then dropped his hands to his sides and slowly walked away, making his way back to the graveside.

“Wesley.”

He stopped and turned back when Giles called out to him.

“I’m glad you came,” Giles said.

Wesley nodded quietly and rejoined the group, taking his place beside Angel and Cordelia.


	7. I Don't Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What better way to celebrate the Fourth of July than a trip to the beach and a little America vs. England debate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by an actual conversation I had with a British friend on Facebook back in 2011.
> 
> Takes places between seasons two and three.

The blazing hot sun beat down on the city with all the intensity L.A. residents had come to expect from the summer season, but today no one seemed to mind it very much.

It was the Fourth of July, and the Angel Investigations team had great plans for the day. Gunn and Cordelia showed up at Wesley’s apartment that morning, and Wesley greeted them with a grin. He wore red swimming shorts, a white t-shirt, and black sandals. He’d let his hair grow out over the summer, and now it hung loose, a shaggy brown mop that gave him a relaxed, almost boyish look.

He stepped aside to let his friends in. Behind him, on the floor by the couch, a beach towel was folded neatly on top of a cooler filled with beer and soda.

Cordy carried in the picnic basket she had packed and set it next to the cooler. Gunn had brought a football, a Frisbee, a plastic bat and ball, and some other sports equipment, all of which he carried in a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

The three friends ate breakfast around Wesley’s dining room table, talking excitedly over stacks of pancakes and plates filled with bacon and eggs. When they had finished eating, they went back into the living room and started gathering up their supplies.

Wesley put his hands in the pockets of his swim shorts and surveyed the scene. “Have we got everything?”

“Looks like,” Cordy said cheerfully.

“All right,” Gunn rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get going.”

They carried everything downstairs and loaded up Wesley’s car, and a few minutes later they were on their way.

They drove up the coast, heading for a beach just outside the city limits. They had decided on that a few days earlier, when Gunn pointed out that L.A. beaches were always uncomfortably crowded on Independence Day. He’d suggested that the longer drive would be worth having a little more space once they got there.

When they arrived, they found the parking lot nearly empty. Up ahead, blue waves lapped gently against glittering white sand, only sparsely dotted with umbrellas and beach towels.

“You were right, Charles,” Wesley said, shifting into park and shutting off the engine. “This is much nicer than all those crowded beaches we passed on the way here.”

“Hey, ya live in L.A. your whole life, you pick up a few things,” Gunn said.

They got out of the car and went around to the back to unload everything. Wesley pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it into the backseat, then slung his towel over his shoulder and hefted the cooler.

“Here,” Cordy reached out to take one of the handles. Wesley gripped the other one, and together they carried the heavy blue box out to the shore. Gunn followed behind them, carrying the picnic basket and duffel bag.

“This looks like a good spot,” Wesley said, crouching to set the cooler down.

They spent a few minutes spreading out their towels and putting on sunscreen and getting everything settled, then Gunn unzipped the duffel bag and produced the football he’d packed. He tossed it to himself a couple of times and raised his eyebrows at his friends expectantly.

Wes and Cordy exchanged grins and leaped to their feet to join him. Gunn tossed the ball to Cordelia, and she drew her arm back, preparing to throw it as far as she could.

“Wesley, go deep!” she called out, and hurled the football with all her might.

It spiraled upward in a wide arc. Wesley craned his neck back to watch its trajectory, then he kicked off his sandals and took off running down the beach after it. The ball was just about to land out of his reach when Wesley made a dive for it and caught it at the last second. He held it close to his chest as he hit the ground, kicking up sand as he rolled to a stop. He leaped to his feet and spiked the ball into the ground with a triumphant yell.

He shook the sand out of his hair, and looked up to see Gunn and Cordelia running towards him, grinning.

“That was a _great_ catch,” Cordy said.

“I ain’t seen a badass dive like that in a long time,” Gunn said. He held up his hand, palm open. Wesley’s own smile broadened as he mimicked the gesture, and the two of them did their special handshake.

“Did you ever play football as a kid?” Cordy asked as they walked back to their spot.

“Not American football,” Wesley said. He stopped to grab his sandals, then resumed walking, carrying the black flip flops in one hand and the football in the other. “In high school I played soccer for a year. You know, that sport the _rest_ of the world calls football.”

“It is _not_ the rest of the world,” Cordy argued. They sat down, and she opened the cooler and took out three beers. She passed two of them to Gunn and Wesley, and cracked open her own. “Other countries call it soccer.”

“The United States and Canada are the only places where it’s called soccer,” Wesley insisted. “The rest of the world is smart enough to realize that a game primarily made up of moving a ball around with your feet ought to be called _football_. Makes more sense than calling _this_ a football,” he held up the pigskin. "Aside from the kickoff and field goals, this game's all hands.”

“Hm,” Gunn looked convinced. “Never thought of that before.”

“And can you really call it a ball when it’s shaped like a bizarre oblong diamond?” Wesley went on.

“Now you’re just being pedantic,” Cordelia said.

“You Americans just have to do everything your own way,” Wesley said with a playful smile. “That’s what this holiday’s all about, after all.”

“Oh!” Cordy exclaimed. “I’m glad you said that, actually. It reminded me...I put together a little speech for today.”

“Did you?” Wesley raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Yes,” Cordelia stood and picked up her beer. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” Wesley repeated.

“Well, it’s for England,” Cordy clarified. “But you’re the only English person here, so you’ll have to do.”

“Ah,” Wesley gave her an indulgent nod and gestured dramatically with his own beer bottle. “Go on, then.”

“Ahem,” Cordy poised herself. “Today is the Fourth of July. It is the day that we Americans go out and burn things on the grill and have parties nationwide to celebrate the day that our founding fathers committed high treason by signing the Declaration of Independence. In doing so, they gave us our freedom from you Brits, and it's been full speed ahead for us ever since then. So on this day, we will watch our money go up in smoke as we shoot off fireworks in the hopes that some of them may ascend high enough into the sky that you, our friends across the pond, might see them, as it is our way of saying, _in your face, England!_ ”

Gunn snorted with laughter. “Hey, she’s got a point there,” he said, giving Wesley a playful punch on the arm.

“Mm!” Wesley took a swig of his beer and leaped to his feet to join Cordy. “Indeed! I can't imagine why England doesn't also celebrate the day America finally grew up enough to be left to its own devices!”

“Probably because the Fourth of July contains way too much awesomeness for one tiny little island,” Cordelia retorted. “It takes a big country like the USA to hold it. The entire UK would probably sink under the weight of all that awesomeness.”

“I think we would be classed as a fire hazard to Europe if we let off fireworks like you lot,” Wesley said.

“Pretty sure England became a fire hazard back in 1666,” Cordy shot back.

“Ah, so you paid attention in history class,” Wesley taunted. “Not like you’ve got any room to talk. You’ve lived your whole life in a state that catches fire every year, practically on schedule.”

Gunn leaned back on his beach towel and casually sipped his beer, mentally keeping score as he watched his friends go back and forth. So far they were evenly matched.

“Yeah, but America’s big enough that one state catching fire doesn’t put the whole country in danger,” Cordelia said.

“You can poke and prod as much as you like,” Wesley said. “I'm just waiting for the rest of the world to realize England is actually just a tiny little island off the coast of Europe that, in the course of our history, has managed to occupy and/or rule most of the world,” he smirked and drew himself up proudly. “Because we’re just that _damn good_.”

“Yeah, but we got to the moon first,” Cordy said with equal smugness.

“That’s because we _knew_ it was just a big lump of rock and weren’t daft enough to go confirm the obvious!” Wesley shot back.

Gunn lost it. He fell back against his towel, cracking up. His laughter was infectious, and Wesley and Cordelia exchanged glances and let out stifled giggles that turned into full on laughter as they realized the absurdity of the whole thing.

“All right,” Gunn said, composing himself and sitting up. “You guys wanna call a truce so we can eat?”

“Sounds good to me,” Cordy said.

They sat down beside Gunn, and Wesley opened the picnic basket and started digging around inside. He pulled out a few plastic bags with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in them, a package of Oreos, and a bag of off-brand barbecue flavored potato chips.

“Did you get these at a dollar store?” he asked Cordelia.

“I kinda went at the last minute,” Cordy explained. “They were _completely_ out of Lays. Everyone wants chips on the Fourth of July, I guess. And the good ones go first. Here,” she reached over and opened the bag. “These probably aren’t that bad. Try one.”

“ _They’re not that bad, Wesley,_ ” he said in a high-pitched imitation of her voice as he took a chip out of the bag. “ _Here, why don’t you try one first, Wesley? You can be our guinea pig in case they **are** as bad as they look._ ”

Gunn snickered, and Cordy whacked Wes on the arm.

Wesley swallowed the chip and stared at the bag contemplatively for a few seconds. Then he looked up at his friends. “Have you ever checked into a cheap motel, and the moment you walked into your room, the smell of cigarette smoke just... _permeated_ every inch of the place? The walls, the floor the furniture?”

“Yeah,” Gunn said.

“My first apartment was like that,” Cordelia said.

Wesley held up the bag. “That’s what these taste like.”

“Very funny,” Cordy said.” Give me that.”

She took the bag and ate a couple of chips, then made a face and quickly downed a few gulps of beer to get rid of the taste.

“No, you’re right,” she said. “Those are awful.”

“I suppose the seagulls will like them,” Wesley suggested.

“Good idea,” Cordy said. “Seagulls will eat anything.”

“Ah yes, about that,” Wesley took the bag and set it in front of him. “I want to show you something. A little phenomenon my mother and I discovered on a family holiday when I was a boy.”

Cordy leaned forward, looking interested.

“You see that seagull out there?” Wesley pointed to the little white bird hopping around a few yards away from them.

“Yeah,” Cordy said.

“Take a look around,” Wesley said. “Do you see any other seagulls, _anywhere_ nearby?”

Gunn and Cordelia scanned the area quickly, then shook their heads.

“Mhm,” Wesley nodded. “Now watch this.”

He took a chip out of the bag and threw it. The seagull was on it in an instant, gobbling up the little morsel with obvious delight. Wesley threw another chip. Before it even hit the sand, a second seagull appeared out of nowhere to join the first one. A third gull landed a few seconds later, and the birds cawed at each other as they battled for the crumbs on the sand. Wesley pitched a couple more chips in their direction, and about thirty seconds later, the shore ahead of them was flocked with almost two dozen seagulls, all scrambling for a taste of the tiny orange treats.

“Where the hell did they all come from?” Cordy asked incredulously.

“As I said, a phenomenon,” Wesley said, looking amused. “Never fails.”

“Now how do we get ‘em to go away?” Gunn asked.

Wesley shrugged. “Once the food is gone, they’ll get bored and disappear back to wherever they materialized from.” He tossed a few more chips, then rolled up the bag and set it aside. “We can let them disperse for now, get rid of the rest of these later.”

The three friends ate their sandwiches and Oreos, and drank beer, and left the horrible off-brand chips for the seagulls.

After lunch, Gunn produced a soccer ball from his duffel bag, and they went out by the water to play with it. Wesley was a little rusty at first, but some of his old skills came back to him after a few minutes, and he spent a little while entertaining Gunn and Cordy with a couple of tricks he remembered from his school days.

They spent the rest of the afternoon kicking around the soccer ball, trying to outdo each other with Frisbee tricks, splashing around in the water, and just enjoying each other’s company.

As night began to fall, a stillness came over the beach, and the three friends made their way back to their towels, exhausted but happy at the end of one of the most fun days they’d had in a long time. Off in the distance, someone let off the first firework of the night. It shot up into the inky black sky with a high-pitched whine, then exploded with a pop and a sizzle, lighting up the darkness and casting a glittering green reflection onto the water below.

It was followed by another, then another, and soon the whole sky over the beach was lit up with brilliant bursts of smoke and light and sparks.

Wesley sat with his elbows resting on his knees, absently digging his toes into the sand at the edge of his towel as he watched the fireworks. Beside him, Cordelia laid her head on his shoulder and breathed a tired, contented sigh. A few loose strands of her hair tickled his bare skin.

Three more fireworks—the biggest and brightest ones yet—burst into life above the water, raining down sparks of red, white, and blue and eliciting shouts of excitement and wonder from the small crowd of beachgoers.

Cordy sat up straight and poked Wesley on the arm. “You see that?” she teased him, pointing up at the fireworks. “They’re all saying the same thing: _In your face, England._ ”

Wesley looked at Gunn sitting to his left, then at Cordelia on his right, and he smiled.

“I don’t mind,” he said quietly. He reached into the cooler, took out one of the remaining beer bottles, and popped it open. Holding it up in front of him, he said, “To America.”

Gunn and Cordy clinked their bottles against his. “To America."


	8. You Deserve to be Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwanted phone call on Christmas night brings up old insecurities and painful memories for Wesley, prompting Cordelia to tell him something he desperately needs to hear.

“Wes, that was the best Christmas dinner I’ve had since I came to this dimension,” Lorne declared, pushing away his empty plate with a satisfied smile.

“Thank you, Lorne,” Wesley said, nodding appreciatively at the demon. “I can’t take all of the credit, though. A lot of the recipes I used came from Angel.” He gestured to the vampire across the table.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the fact that a guy who doesn’t eat can be such a good cook,” Cordelia said.

Angel shrugged. “Well, y’know, everyone has their hobbies.”

It was Christmas Day, and Wesley had invited everyone over to his apartment to exchange presents and have Christmas dinner. Now they were sitting around the table making idle conversation while they let their food settle.

From the high chair beside Angel’s seat, Connor clapped his hands and babbled happily. Angel smiled adoringly at his son and adjusted the little red and green hat on the baby’s head. It was part of the elf costume Cordelia had bought for him when she and Angel went Christmas shopping the previous morning. She had tried to convince Angel to wear an identical costume—“at least the hat!” she had insisted—but he flatly refused.

After a while, Wesley stood up and crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of wine from his cabinet. He bent down to the bottom shelf and pushed aside several wines and liquors, reaching all the way to the back to find the unopened bottle he’d been saving especially for today. Cordelia got six wine glasses out of the cupboard, and Gunn served up slices of the pecan pie he brought. Wesley poured the wine, and everyone migrated into the living room to enjoy their drinks and dessert.

It wasn’t long before the stories of past Christmases began to flow. Fred definitely had the best stories. She was apparently the only member of the team who came from a family that wasn’t dysfunctional in some fashion (aside from the fact that they were conservative Southerners).

Angel told a few stories about Christmases with his family in Ireland in his pre-vampire days. Gunn told about the little things he and his crew used to do to mark the occasion even while they were living on the streets and fighting for their lives on a daily basis. According to Lorne, there was nothing even remotely close to Christmas in Pylea, a fact which he lamented heavily over a glass of eggnog; he then went on to recount the ways he had spent the last five Christmases since he came to earth making up for the absence of the holiday in his home dimension. All of the demon’s stories involved alcohol in some fashion, a fact which came as a surprise to absolutely no one.

Wesley stretched out on the couch, a Santa hat draped haphazardly over his face. He breathed a contented sigh, feeling very relaxed in the company of his friends. A comfortable sleepiness came over him, and their stories and voices began to blend into one another, eventually fading into a dull murmur as he began to doze off.

“Hey Wes, what about you?” Fred giggled, nudging him awake.

“Hm, what’s that?” he mumbled, reaching up and plucking the hat from his face.

“I wanna hear some Christmas stories from when you were a kid,” Fred told him.

Angel and Cordelia both stiffened. They knew just enough about Wesley’s upbringing to know that most of his childhood memories were far from pleasant. The two of them exchanged cautious glances, ready to step in and divert the conversation elsewhere if necessary.

It wasn’t necessary. As it turned out, Wesley had some practice with selective storytelling. Yawning, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair, and told the group a few cherry-picked tales of Christmases in the Wyndam-Pryce household—the time his mother let him help make the turkey, the time he spent the weeks leading up to Christmas carefully constructing a ship in a bottle as a present for his father, and the time he got the bicycle he’d been begging for all year.

What Wesley didn’t tell them was the aftermath of each of those stories. His father had spent the entire meal making disparaging remarks about the inferior quality of the turkey, subtly implying that it was Wesley’s fault the meal wasn’t as good as previous years. After unwrapping the ship in a bottle, Roger had examined every inch of it with a sharp, critical eye, pointed out every flaw in its construction, and then spent half an hour lecturing Wesley, chastising the nine-year-old for not putting enough effort into the gift.

But the worst Christmas memory by far was the fate of that beautiful red bicycle. His father used it as guilt-trip fuel for months, calling Wesley spoiled and ungrateful and every other name he could think of for not riding it enough after spending so long asking for it. Never mind the fact that it was a very wet winter; it was pouring down raining nearly every day, and the one time Wesley did try to go out and ride his new bike, he ended up drenched and caught a terrible cold. That was of no consequence to Roger.

Finally he had decided to teach his son a lesson, and Wesley was forced to watch as his father took the bicycle apart and threw it piece by piece into the large roaring fireplace in their living room. The only part he didn’t destroy was the chain. He had something worse in mind for that. After burning the rest of the bicycle, Roger had shoved Wesley into the closet under the stairs with the chain wrapped so tightly around his wrists that it drew blood and nearly cut off his circulation. When he was finally allowed out, hours later, Wesley was forced to clean the charred remains out of the fireplace by himself.

It took weeks for the indentations on his forearms to fade completely, and to this day, Wesley still couldn’t stand the sight of a red bicycle.

But he didn’t tell his friends any of that. They only heard the sugar-coated surface of each story, and they smiled and laughed and went back to sharing their own Christmas memories, and Wesley breathed a silent sigh of relief.

From across the room, Cordelia caught his eye, a silent question etched in the frown lines around her mouth.

 _I know there’s more to those stories,_ the look seemed to say. _Are you all right?_

Wesley gave her a small smile and a barely perceptible nod, grateful that someone had noticed, but eager to avoid drawing too much attention to himself. She held his gaze for a second longer, quietly affirming he was okay, then turned her attention to Gunn, who was sharing a story about the time his gang saved a suburban family from a roving band of vampire carolers.

“They’d been making their way through the whole neighborhood,” Gunn was saying. “Singin’ carols and tricking people into inviting them in for...eggnog, or whatever rich white folks give their guests at Christmastime. Soon as the vamps crossed the threshold—boom! Slaughter. Drank whole families and stole all their presents like supernatural Grinches. They had a whole lair up in Beverly Hills where they stashed all the stuff they’d been taking. That’s how we finally tracked ‘em down. We followed them to their next target and dusted ‘em right in the middle of the most off-key version of _Jingle Bells_ you ever heard.”

“Must’ve freaked out the family,” Fred interjected, leaning forward and looking interested. “Seein’ a group of carolers turn to dust right on their front porch.”

“That’s what we expected,” Gunn said. “Turns out they knew about vampires already. They had a cousin or somethin’ who got turned a couple years back, so they’d done some research. After we dusted the vamp carolers, the family invited our whole gang inside to have Christmas dinner with them. Best meal we had all year.”

“That’s lovely, Charles,” Wesley said.

“Yeah, it was pretty sweet,” Gunn nodded. “They sent us home with leftovers, so we were eatin’ pretty good for the next couple days.”

It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to embarrassing stories—specifically the ways parents embarrass their children—and inevitably it came back around to Wesley. Fred asked him about things his parents had done to embarrass him.

He hesitated for an imperceptible instant, remembering all at once the myriad of cruel ways his father had found to humiliate him, and the obvious delight Roger took in those displays of cruelty. And for a single moment Wesley felt a surge of anger and a pang of deep sadness as he once again forced himself to acknowledge that his father had never loved him, and likely never would.

But Wesley knew he was among friends now; he was sitting in his living room surrounded by people who liked him and cared about him, and for that reason he found he was able to shake off those old feelings of inadequacy and move on. This moment, he decided, was his. And he refused to allow his father’s shadow to darken yet another good thing. It was a quiet, private moment, lasting only a second and shared by no one, but to Wesley it felt like an enormous victory.

He looked around at the group. “All right, let me think of a good one.”

After an entire childhood suffering verbal abuse, his recent years with Angel Investigations had finally taught Wesley how to tell the difference between good-natured ribbing and genuinely malicious barbs. He understood now that there was a difference between humiliation and embarrassment. Humiliation was a mean-spirited act, intended to demean and belittle its target. Embarrassment was generally harmless and usually made for a good story after the fact. That distinction gave him an idea of where to start.

“Ah! I’ve got one,” he said. “As it happens, my mother has a slight tendency to...overshare after she’s had a glass of wine or two.”

Cordelia perked up. “Ooh, like that time she came to visit last year?”

“Yes, that's the one I'm thinking of," Wesley nodded.

His mother had come to see him a few weeks before Christmas the previous year. Roger, thankfully, had elected to remain in England. Much as Wesley enjoyed spending time with her away from his father’s presence, she had still managed to embarrass him a couple of times during her stay.

**_One year earlier_ **

_Wesley’s mother leaned back in her chair and turned to her son. “Darling, do you know why we named you Wesley?”_

_He eyed the near-empty glass of wine in her hand. “Do I want to?”_

_Gunn and Cordelia exchanged grins and leaned forward eagerly, ready to hear whatever juicy tidbit Mrs. Wyndam-Pryce was planning to reveal about their usually reticent friend._

_“You know what your name means,” Wesley’s mother went on._

_He nodded. “From the west meadow.”_

_“Mhmm,” she swallowed another sip of wine. “That’s literal. On our fifth anniversary, Roger and I spent a romantic evening out in the meadow to the west of our estate. We made passionate love in the tall grass, among the wildflowers. And that’s when you were conceived.”_

_Wesley flushed a deep shade of crimson and ducked his head. “I really wish I didn’t know that.”_

**_Present day_ **

“For like a _week_ after that, every time someone said his name, he blushed,” Cordelia said gleefully. “I’m talking bright red, up to his ears, couldn’t look us in the eye, the whole thing.”

“So of course we did what any good friends would do,” Gunn added.

“You tried not to say his name as much?” Fred ventured.

“Hell no!” Gunn exclaimed.

“We said it way more,” Cordy said.

A chorus of laughter erupted from the group, and Wesley nodded, acquiescing with his own self-deprecating chuckle. It felt good to be a part of something, to contribute a story like everyone else, and to know this group of people was laughing _with_ him and not _at_ him.

The wine and stories continued to flow for a while longer, but as evening turned to night, the group began to dwindle. Angel needed to get Connor to bed soon, Gunn had promised to take Fred to look at the Christmas lights in a neighborhood near the Hyperion, and Lorne had a ticket to a Christmas concert at a local opera hall. Before long, Cordelia was the only one left.

“You don't have any other plans tonight?” Wesley asked her.

“Nope,” she shook her head.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Wesley said. “I’m sure there’s a Christmas movie on cable we can watch.”

“Yeah,” Cordelia said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Or we could play Battleship.”

Wesley chuckled. “This stuff’s not quite strong enough to make me think _that’s_ a good idea,” he said, holding up his half-empty wine glass.

“All right, have it your way,” Cordy said with a laugh, sitting down and picking up the remote. “I’ll see what’s on.”

“You do that,” Wesley said. “I’ll go and make us some popcorn.”

He started to make his way to the kitchen, only to be interrupted by his phone ringing. He stopped and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“And what if someone had been calling you with an urgent matter?” The harsh, cold voice of his father on the other end of the line immediately stiffened Wesley’s shoulders. Every muscle in his body tensed up, and he clenched his left hand and cringed in anticipation of the onslaught of criticism.

“The proper way to answer your telephone is _Wyndam-Pryce residence. Wesley speaking._ ” Roger went on. “How many times did I drill that into you growing up?”

Wesley was silent.

“ _Well?_ ” Roger demanded, and Wesley realized his father’s question wasn’t rhetorical.

“Oh, ahm,” Wesley faltered. “Quite a lot, sir. Many times.”

Across the room, Cordelia shot him a questioning look, and Wesley awkwardly averted his gaze.

“Further proof, I suppose, that you never did respect anything I had to teach you,” Roger said with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “Suppose someone needed to reach you in an emergency. If you don’t identify yourself the moment you answer the phone, it forces the caller to confirm your identity before going on, wasting precious seconds they may not have in a crisis. It’s inconsiderate, impolite, and you ought to know better by this point. Honestly, Wesley, you’re a grown man. I shouldn’t _still_ have to remind you how to show basic courtesy and decorum.”

Now Wesley was angry. Of course his father would find the most ridiculous and insignificant thing to chastise him for.

If Roger were here in person, Wesley would have been cowed and subdued in his intimidating presence. But the knowledge that there was an entire ocean between them made him feel marginally braver.

He straightened a little and glowered at the receiver. “Was your sole intention to criticize the way I answer the phone, or was there another purpose for your call?”

“There’s no need to be petulant, Wesley,” Roger rebuked him. “I _was_ calling to wish you a merry Christmas, but once again, your stubbornness and disrespect have ruined yet another potentially pleasant holiday. Clearly _some_ things will never change.”

Wesley closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Arguing would get him nowhere, and apologizing would be an admission of wrongdoing. He was confident enough in himself by now to recognize that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but he was still too scared of his father to fight back.

“How was your day, then?” he asked in an even voice. “Did you and mum have a nice Christmas?”

Cordelia’s eyebrows went up, and she stood and took a step toward him. “Is that your dad? Lemme talk to him. I wanna give that asshole a piece of my mind.”

Wesley held up a hand and ducked away from her, and pressed the phone closer to his ear to listen to his father’s response.

“Yes, we had a lovely Christmas dinner with some friends,” Roger said, and Wesley thought with the briefest spark of hope that he might actually be able to exchange some banal, non-confrontational small-talk with his father, if only for a moment. “Of course,” Roger went on, his tone sharpening, “I _was_ forced to embellish a great deal when they inquired after you. Your continued string of disappointing behavior certainly wouldn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation.”

Wesley sighed, crestfallen. He should have known better than to expect anything other than criticism. Cordelia hovered nearby, watching with concern as her friend grew more agitated by the minute.

“I trust mum made a good meal?” he asked, trying to divert the conversation away from himself.

“Certainly,” Roger agreed. “You may recall when you were a child, your mother always felt obligated to let you ‘help’ prepare the food. In your absence, she no longer has that problem, and the quality of our Christmas dinners has greatly improved.”

“Of course,” Wesley said, feigning deference. “May I speak to mum?”

“Certainly not,” Roger said. “It’s quite late here, in case you’ve forgotten how time differences work. Your mother went to bed hours ago. I was just about to retire for the night myself when it occurred to me I had better give you a call while it was still Christmas day in your part of the world.”

Great. Wesley grimaced. So he was an afterthought on his father’s agenda.

“I appreciate it,” he lied. “I’ll let you go then. Wouldn’t want to keep you up unnecessarily late.”

“Goodbye, Wesley,” Roger said, and he hung up without so much as a “Merry Christmas.”

Wesley set the phone down and braced his arms against the side table. He stood still, hunched over the table for several silent moments.

“Damn it.” he said quietly.

Cordelia took a step toward him.

“Damn it!” he said louder, slamming his hand against the table. He straightened and began pacing, his breath coming in shallow, angry bursts.

“I almost made it,” he whirled around and looked Cordy in the eyes. “For once, I almost made it through an entire Christmas without letting my father ruin it for me. You know for the first time tonight, I finally felt free of him. Not two hours ago, I felt like he couldn't possibly ruin anything for me ever again. And all it took was a phone call to destroy _that_ delusion. Just _one_ Christmas without him bearing down on me and making me feel small and worthless and...and like the failure he still thinks I am. Just one! Was that too much to ask?” Wesley stopped pacing and sank down onto the couch with a deep, exhausted sigh. "I suppose it was."

He lowered his head and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He stayed that way for a while, head bent forward and fingers laced on the back of his neck, shoulders slumped in defeat.

There was a shuffling sound as someone drew near, and Cordelia appeared in his peripheral vision, crouching on the floor in front of him. He felt her hand fall gently onto his shoulder.

“Wesley,” she said softly. “You deserve to be loved.”

Wesley dropped his hands into his lap and turned his head to one side. “I know,” he muttered, unconvincingly.

“Look at me,” Cordelia put her fingers under his chin and lifted it so she could meet his eyes. “You deserve to be loved.”

Wesley averted his gaze. “Yeah, I...y-you’re right. I know.”

“You deserve to be loved,” Cordelia said again.

He finally looked at her, despair and confusion clouding his blue eyes. “Why d’you keep repeating it?”

“Because I think you’ve spent most of your life being told otherwise,” Cordelia said softly.

Wesley’s eyes brimmed over, and he turned away again. He swallowed, just barely holding it in.

She cupped his cheek with one hand. _“You deserve to be loved.”_

The words turned inside him like a key, finally unlocking the floodgates of his heart, and Wesley broke down. Tears streamed down his face, and he choked out an anguished cry. Cordelia pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him and stroking his hair as he laid his head on her shoulder and shook with uncontrollable sobs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, running her hand up and down his back soothingly. “You’re not what he said you are. You’re not any of the horrible things he said you are. It’s okay.”

“Y-you don’t know,” Wesley choked. “You don’t know half of what he did to me.”

“I don’t need to know,” Cordy said, holding him tighter. “I know you didn’t deserve it. I know you’re worth more than that.”

“How can you know that?” he asked, raising his head to look in her eyes.

Cordelia brushed a lock of Wesley’s shaggy hair off his tear-stained face. “Because you’re worth more than that to _me,_ ” she answered. “You’re worth more than that to _us._ You’re with people now who love you, and Wesley... _you deserve to be loved.”_

He buried his head in her shoulder again, and she held him while he cried.


	9. Just Tell Me There's No Kitten Poker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy drives down to L.A. on a whim at the height of her post-resurrection depression and finds a little understanding in a recently heartbroken Wesley and a sympathetic Lorne.

He stumbled away from the scene with slow, halting steps. His black polished shoes gleamed under the hard lights, bright as the spark that had just left his eyes, even as his heart was torn from his chest.

The sword he had wielded with valor and vigor only moments before now hung limply in his grasp, scraping carelessly across the floor without reverence or regard for the intricate weapon.

Bitter disappointment and crushing despair bore down on his shoulders like the world Atlas was forced to carry, and he fell to his knees under the weight of it, the sword clattering to the floor, unnoticed, beside him.

He pressed his palms to the ground, and all his hopes of a happy Hollywood ending drained from his heart, flowing from his fingertips into the cold, unfeeling floor and leaving him hollow and empty.

In an instant something else was filling him up again. Something ancient and angry and _terrifying_ in the sheer, raw force of its power.

Suddenly his veins were flowing with the fires of long-forgotten passions; jealousy and hatred burned through his blood as he was overtaken by the vengeful spirit of days gone by.

Wesley’s eyes darkened, and he looked up, suddenly understanding everything in a single moment of perfect, horrifying clarity.

Then it was gone, releasing its grasp on him as quickly as it had taken hold, leaving him drained and exhausted and very shaken.

He heard something in the next room, recognized it as the voices of his friends. Slowly, he made his way toward the sound and stopped in the doorway. Angel and Cordelia were there, telling Fred and Gunn about the spirits that had overtaken them in the dressing room.

“They were afraid of someone,” Cordelia was saying.

“He was a wizard,” Wesley spoke up. They all turned to him, and he continued. “He was obsessed with the girl. When he found her with the other man, he went insane with jealous rage—pulled her out of time, out of any reality beyond his theatre, his company. He swore she would dance for him forever.”

“How did you—” Fred started to ask.

“I, um...hit a hot spot, too.”

No one appeared to notice his brief hesitation, and thankfully no one asked why such a hot spot would have affected him.

“And now we’re stuck here?” Gunn asked, and everyone looked at Wesley expectantly.

“Well, uh...” He faltered for a moment. This was not a time to be paralyzed by heartbreak. His team was counting on him to find a solution and get them out of here safely.

He took a look around the room, taking in their surroundings. “This kind of temporal shift can’t just exist. It has to be maintained. That requires power, and concentration. If we can overload him somehow, we might be able to slip back to the real world.”

“Man with the plan,” Gunn nodded, sounding impressed.

Without thinking, Wesley shot a dagger-filled glare at the other man. This time someone did notice. It was quick, but Wesley saw Cordelia look at Fred and Gunn, then shift her gaze to him. They held eye contact for only a second, but he could tell she knew.

There was no time to dwell on interpersonal dynamics. The demon robots were multiplying, which meant Kurskov’s concentration would be weakening. Everyone knew what needed to be done, and the team split off to go and do their parts in the fight.

Not until after the demons had been vanquished and Kurskov’s power center destroyed did Wesley have time to truly reflect on the events of the evening. As he walked out of the theatre, trailing just behind his friends, he thought back over everything—the flash of understanding in Cordelia’s eyes, the intimate moment between Fred and Gunn he had stumbled upon, the terrifying might of the wizard’s wrath surging through him as he was overtaken by the ancient memory...

He realized the spirit had needed him. Not just a human host—it needed _him_ specifically. The spirit needed a powerful whirlwind of emotions matching its own in intensity, to latch onto and feed off of—a perfect conduit of anguish and anger to reveal the past to the present.

It was in that moment that Wesley decided he would never allow himself to become like Kurskov. In the silent confines of his broken heart, Wesley made a vow that no matter how much it tore him up inside to see Fred and Gunn together, he would never let jealousy and rage consume him. He would never become so caught up in his own passions and desires that he forgot that Fred and Gunn were first and foremost his friends, his _family._

It hurt like hell to see them together, but pain was nothing new to Wesley. Friends, on the other hand, were a very new thing to him. And if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that the latter was most definitely worth the former.

He tried to hang onto that mindset as he was patching up Gunn’s wound after the group returned to the Hyperion, but it was hard to maintain his resolve when they were all in such close proximity, and Gunn kept _looking_ at Fred like that.

Wesley had hoped he would be able to pull Cordy aside at some point and discuss it all with her. The look they had shared earlier led him to believe she knew what was going on. Nothing she could say would actually change anything, but Wesley was keen to hear her take on the whole situation anyway. She had never failed to come through for him in the past; he could always count on Cordelia to encourage him with her surprising and unique perspective on problems.

But Wesley’s hope for a little quality best-friend-time was dashed by the sudden arrival of the Groosalugg. Overjoyed to see her old flame, Cordy took the half-demon by the hand and led him out of the hotel, presumably taking him back to her place, and Wesley sighed and turned to go back into his office, catching Angel’s eye for a moment on the way. Judging by the look on the vampire’s face, Wesley wasn’t the only one whose hopes had been dashed that evening.

Wesley tried to focus on his books, but Fred and Gunn were just outside his door, sitting on the couch in the lobby, talking and laughing and looking adoringly into each other’s eyes. When he could no longer bear to be around them, Wesley gave up and just went home. When he reached his apartment, he slumped through the front door and fell heavily onto the couch, not caring that he was rumpling his rented tux.

He was a few minutes into his solitary wallowing when he heard a knock at the door. He stood and crossed the room slowly, allowing himself as he ambled to entertain daydreams of Fred appearing at his doorstep and telling him she had made a terrible mistake, that it was really him and not Charles that she wanted to be with.

He shook his head at the absurdity of this delusion, and opened the door to something almost as unbelievable.

Buffy Summers was standing before him, looking pensive and a little distraught.

“Buffy,” Wesley blinked, taken aback. Then, without thinking, he pulled her into a tight hug. He let go quickly, and scratched the back of his neck while stammering awkwardly. “Sorry, I, uh...I know we were never all that close, it’s just...I haven’t seen you since before...how are you?”

“I’m, uh...I’m all right,” Buffy said, sounding anything but.

“Come in, please,” Wesley said, stepping back. “What are you doing here? Is there something going on?”

“No,” Buffy shook her head as she shut the door behind her and followed Wesley into the living room. “Nothing’s up. I just...I had to get out of Sunnydale for a while, so I got in the car and started driving.”

“And you just happened to end up in Los Angeles.” Wesley’s tone was one of curiosity rather than judgment. He hoped Buffy could tell.

“Just sort of gravitated here, I guess,” Buffy shrugged. “I’m not really sure why I came to see _you_. Guess I figured Angel would be too freaked out if I showed up unexpectedly.”

“I’m a little thrown by it myself,” Wesley admitted. He looked at her with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said unconvincingly.

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

“What about you?” Buffy asked evasively, looking him up and down. “Where’s the party?”

“Party?” Wesley looked down at his wrinkled tux. “Ah, right.” Caught off guard as he was by the Slayer’s surprise visit, he had momentarily forgotten his own plight.

“Black tie event turned impromptu demon-fighting?” Buffy ventured.

“Vindictive wizard, actually,” Wesley said with a grimace. “It was supposed to be a magical night out at the ballet, but we all got a bit more magic than we bargained for.”

“Lemme guess,” Buffy said, “Angel dragged the team to see some old show, then discovered there was evil mojo happening, so he had to be all noble and set things right?”

“Throw in a sword fight with demon robots in comedy and tragedy masks and that’s my evening in a nutshell,” Wesley said dryly.

“You guys sure know how to keep things interesting around here,” Buffy said.

Wesley snorted. “I hardly doubt Sunnydale is lacking in the ‘interesting’ department.”

“You’d be surprised,” Buffy grimaced. “The biggest threat we’re facing right now is _Revenge of the Nerds._ ”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Buffy sighed, sinking down onto the couch. “It’s...nothing.”

Wesley sat down as well, and turned to face her. “Can I assume things aren’t going all that well for you, Buffy?”

“I guess I should be glad we’re not in any big danger,” Buffy reasoned. She narrowed her eyes, searching for the words to explain how she was feeling. “It’s just...I was dead, Wes. And my friends’ lives just kind of...went on without me. And now I’m back, and it’s like I’m not a part of anything anymore, and without a Big Bad to prepare for...”

“You’re feeling a bit purposeless,” Wesley concluded.

“A _lot_ purposeless,” Buffy nodded emphatically.

“Well,” Wesley said, angling around toward the side table to reach for the telephone, “it just so happens I’ve got a friend who’s quite adept at helping people find their purpose.”

He stood and dialed a number, and Buffy watched as Wesley waited for an answer.

“Hello, I, uh...oh...hello, Fred,” Wesley’s expression contorted into a look of anguish. “I was just calling to...yes, I-I know I left rather quickly. I was, um...feeling a bit tired, you know, after this evening’s excitement. Listen, I need to speak to Lorne. Could you get him for me? Thank you.”

The line went silent for a moment, and Wesley gave a defeated sigh as he waited for Lorne to come to the phone.

“Lorne,” he said a moment later when the empath demon picked up. “I was wondering if we could meet up someplace. I’ve got someone here, an old, ah...acquaintance of mine who could use a little guidance, and I thought...no, I-I’d rather not go back to the Hyperion tonight. Is there somewhere else we could...yes, I realize Caritas would have been an excellent choice. Yes, Lorne, I remember the explosion quite well, I was there. All right. Fine, that sounds good. See you soon.”

He hung up the phone, scribbled an address on a notepad, then turned to Buffy.

“I’m going to change into something a little less formal,” he told her. “Then I’ll take you to meet my friend.”

He emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later wearing blue jeans and a purple button-up shirt, retrieved his keys from the coffee table, and motioned for Buffy to follow him.

“So who’s Fred?” Buffy asked as they got in the car. “You didn’t seem all that happy to be talking to him.”

“Ah, _her,_ actually,” Wesley corrected. “Fred’s a girl. Short for _Winifred,_ ” he added in response to Buffy’s questioning look.

“So why didn’t you want to talk to her?” Buffy pressed.

“Oh, I’d like nothing more than to...talk, and...spend time with her...” Wesley trailed off.

“Oh,” Buffy nodded, suddenly understanding. “She’s with someone else.”

“Yes.”

“That happen recently?”

“Uh, tonight, actually. At the ballet.”

“Ouch,” Buffy grimaced sympathetically. “That’s rough.”

“Mm,” Wesley gave a noncommittal grunt, and Buffy dropped the subject.

They drove in silence for about ten minutes, before coming to a stop in front of a seedy-looking bar with neon lights.

Wesley double-checked the address Lorne had given him. “This is the place.” He shut off the engine, and he and Buffy went inside.

They paused inside the doorway and looked around. A dozen different species of demons milled about them, drinking and shouting and starting fights and throwing darts—mostly at the dart board. A few of the demons looked their way and sneered when Buffy and Wesley entered the bar, but most of them ignored the two humans.

“Great,” Buffy said. “A demon bar. Just tell me there’s no kitten poker.”

Wesley gave her a funny look, then scanned the crowd for a moment. “Ah, there’s Lorne.”

The Pylean was leaning against the bar, beckoning them over. Rock music blared over the speakers as they made their way through the crowd of demons and joined him at the bar.

“Buffy, this is Lorne,” Wesley said, speaking up to be heard over the music. “Lorne, Buffy.”

“Hey, I finally get to meet the famous Buffy Summers,” Lorne said with a cordial grin. “What brings the Slayer down to L.A.? Business or pleasure?”

“Neither...exactly,” Buffy said hesitantly.

“Right, Wesley said on the phone you could use a little guidance,” Lorne said.

“Yeah,” Buffy nodded. “He said you could help?”

“Lorne is an empath,” Wesley explained. “He reads peoples’ auras when they sing, and he uses what he reads to help them find their destinies.”

“Sing?” Buffy looked skeptical. “Last time I sang in front of a demon, I almost spontaneously combusted.”

“Ah yes,” Wesley said. “That, ah...musical phenomenon that hit Sunnydale a while back.”

“You heard about that?” Buffy asked, surprised.

“Willow stays in touch with us,” Wesley explained. “Keeps us in the loop about all of the big things happening in Sunnydale. Although we haven’t heard much from her lately. Is she all right?”

“She’s...kinda going through a rough time right now,” Buffy said.

“Sounds like all of you are,” Wesley said.

Buffy nodded, then looked at Lorne. “So, I just...pick a song and...you’ll read my future?”

“Something like that,” Lorne said. “Go ahead, sweet pea. Anything you like.”

Buffy started singing, a little hesitantly. It was the chorus to some pop tune Wesley was fairly certain he’d heard on the radio once or twice, but he couldn’t name the artist.

Lorne listened, tilting his head to one side and narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. When Buffy got quiet, Lorne gave his analysis.

“Hmmm, well I can tell you this much. The biggest threat you’re facing isn’t supernatural.”

Buffy looked unimpressed. “Yeah, kinda knew that already.”

She sighed and sank down onto the nearest bar stool.

“Tell ya what,” Lorne said, taking a seat beside her. “Let’s order a couple of drinks—this place has a _divine_ mint julep—and we can talk about what’s getting you down. _Both_ of you,” he added, casting a meaningful glance at Wesley.

Wes blanched. “I, uh...”

“Sweetie, your aura’s bluer and gloomier than your apartment,” Lorne said. “Bartender! Three mint juleps over here, please.”

“Make mine a Scotch,” Wesley said, resigning himself to Lorne’s will. He spun the other stool around and sat down on Buffy’s other side.

“Definitely pickin' up on some strong  _what comes next_ vibes,” Lorne told Buffy as he sipped his drink. “Lot of conflict in there. You’re feeling purposeless, but you can’t imagine anything else could happen that’d be big enough to give you purpose again.”

Buffy took a sip of her own drink, made a face, then took another sip. “Well, I already died. What’s gonna top that?”

“What was that _Revenge of the Nerds_ comment you made earlier?” Wesley asked. “You said it’s the biggest threat you’re facing right now.”

“These three basement-dwelling losers who call themselves _the Trio,_ ” Buffy explained. “They got their hands on a little bit of magical tech, and they’ve decided messing with my head is the best way to use it. And now they’ve declared themselves my arch nemesises...es.”

“The plural is nemeses,” Wesley said.

“Thanks,” Buffy paused and looked down at her drink. “I’m probably not gonna remember that in the morning.” She sighed. “They might as well be; it’s not like there’s anything bigger happening right now. I guess it’s selfish for me to wish for more danger just so I can have a purpose.”

“Well,” Wesley reasoned. “A Slayer without much to slay is bound to feel at odds with herself. I don’t suppose it’s all that selfish.”

“Like a Watcher without anything to watch?” Buffy retorted. “Is this how you felt after you got fired?”

“I’m not sure there’s anyone who can understand exactly what you’re feeling,” Wesley said.

“ _Great_ ,” Buffy took another sip of her drink.

“But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to help,” Wesley added gently, laying a hand on her arm.

“Thanks,” Buffy said. “You really wanna help, though? Change the subject. Let’s talk about something a little less depressing than my life. Tell me what your team is doing. Aside from fighting wizards and demon robots at the ballet.”

“Well, there’s...no shortage of evil here in Los Angeles,” Wesley said. “Your standard demons, vampires, hellbeasts...lawyers.”

"Oh right, you guys have that evil law firm here."

"Wolfram and Hart, yes."

“Heh,” Buffy smiled over the rim of her glass. “You went from _being_ a bureaucrat to _fighting_ bureaucrats.”

"...Yes."

“Oh!” Buffy said, suddenly remembering something. “Speaking of nuisances, I heard Harmony spent a couple days with you guys a while back.”

“ _Speaking of nuisances_?” Wesley repeated.

Buffy ignored him. “How’d _that_ go?”

“It took all of five minutes before I had to be physically restrained from staking her,” Wesley said dryly.

Buffy grinned at him. “Your old Watcher instincts kicking in?”

“No,” Wesley said. “She was just being really annoying.”

Buffy actually laughed at that. It was a good sound. Wesley was glad to hear it.

“Cordelia practically had to tackle me,” he went on. "Granted, after Harmony betrayed us, Cordy came pretty close to staking her herself."

Buffy chuckled again, then gave Wes a devious grin. “So, you and Cordy...you guys kinda had a thing in Sunnydale...” she waggled her eyebrows at him.

Wesley’s face reddened. “It didn’t last.” He perked up. “I’m glad for that, actually. We get on much better as friends. Now she gives me advice on...other romantic pursuits.” He trailed off as the thought of Fred came bubbling to the surface in his mind once again.

Buffy was apparently following. “Did Cordy encourage you to ask Fred out?”

“She did,” Wesley nodded morosely, nursing the last swill of Scotch in his glass. “If I had taken her advice and just gone for it, I might have stood a chance. Just goes to show that Cordelia knows what she’s talking about when it comes to relationships.”

Lorne, who had been silently listening to their conversation for a few minutes, finally broke in. “Sounds like you and Cordy are best girlfriends.”

Wes leaned forward to look past Buffy and fixed Lorne with a strange stare. “What?”

The empath demon shrugged. “The two of you talk about clothes, trade dating tips, and casually discuss sex. Face it, sweet cakes, you’re her best girlfriend.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Wesley had to acquiesce. “Well, it _is_ Cordelia, so I can’t say I mind much. It figures, though. Of the two very attractive women I work with, one thinks of me as nothing more than her boss, and the other one—apparently—sees me as her _best girlfriend._ ”

Buffy snorted. “Wow, and I thought _my_ batting average was bad, Wes.”

“Well doin’ the violent and steamy cha-cha with a platinum blonde vampire with a chip in his head ain’t exactly battin’ a thousand either, kid.” Lorne pointed out.

Wesley's eyebrows shot up. “Platinum blo— _Spike?_ ”

“I thought you said he reads _futures._ ” Buffy said, flushing red. She looked at Lorne. “I thought you read _futures._ ”

Lorne shrugged “Apparently you’re gonna sleep with him again.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley tapped Buffy’s arm again. “I’m still hung up on the part where _you’re sleeping with Spike?_ ”

Buffy looked back and forth between the former Watcher and the demon. “I-it’s just a…thing, a thing that is absolutely, probably, almost definitely going to stop…a-as soon as—oh god, please don’t tell Angel,” she groaned, laying her head on the bar.

“I won’t say a word,” Wesley promised. “Angel has…plenty of other things to worry about at the moment. And I have no desire to be responsible for the first recorded incidence in history of a vampire having a heart attack.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said, sitting up straight again. She drank the last bit of her mint julep and set the glass down with a thump.

Wesley stared at the empty glass for a moment, then looked up at the Slayer. “Buffy...it’s just occurred to me you’re not actually old enough to drink.”

“Wes,” Buffy said. “I’ve been slaying vampires since I was fifteen, I’ve died _twice,_ I’m currently in a ‘relationship’ that makes Sid and Nancy look like June and Ward Cleaver, and you’re worried about me getting carded in a _demon bar?_ ”

“...Fair point.” Wesley conceded.

Lorne downed the last of his own drink and looked over at his companions. “Whaddaya say, kids? Another round?”

“I shouldn’t,” Buffy said. “Not if I’m gonna be driving back to Sunnydale tonight.”

“Yes, about that,” Wesley said, standing. “We’d really better get going. It’s already quite late, and you’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of you. I assume you’re parked at my place?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, also standing.

“I’ll take you back there,” Wesley said, digging in his pocket for his car keys. “What are you going to tell your friends when they ask where you’ve been?”

“ _If_ anyone asks,” Buffy said, “I’ll just say I went for a drive. Or on a really long patrol. Or something. No one’s gonna press the issue. I don’t exactly have anybody pacing the floor waiting for me.”

“Buffy, I’m sorry things are so rough for you right now,” Wesley said softly, touching her arm.

“I’ll be all right eventually, Wes,” Buffy said. “Talking to people outside of Sunnydale helped a little, so...thanks.” She turned to Lorne. “I shouldn’t have been rude to you earlier. You did help me.”

“You’ll claw your way out of this dark pit you’re in soon enough,” Lorne assured her. “I don’t need prescience to see that’s the kind of person you are.”

Buffy nodded her thanks, then followed Wesley out of the bar.


	10. The Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia reflects on her friendship with Wesley, and the lie she just told Fred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't quite fit the style of the rest of the story, because it's not a conversation with Wesley.
> 
> But I can't stand that scene from "The Price" where Cordelia basically says she doesn't care about Wesley anymore. It pisses me off every time I watch it. I don't believe for one second that Cordy actually meant that, and I had to address the issue and fix it (as best I could without deviating from canon) before continuing with the rest of the story.

I know what she wants to ask me.

I see it in the glances Fred keeps casting my way. I see it in the way she lingers for just a second too long when she brings me the cleaning supplies. I see it in the way she opens her mouth when I walk past, only to close it a second later, waiting for a better opportunity. She’s not exactly subtle, that girl.

It’s been going on all morning, so when she finally works up the guts to broach the subject, I head her off.

“No.”

Fred looks confused.

“You want me to say something to Angel about Wesley,” I say. “Sorry. Can’t. Won’t.”

I turn away, and she follows.

“ _Why_?” she persists, “Why can’t-won’t you? You’ve known them both longer than anybody. Angel would _listen_ to you.”

“Probably,” I agree, “but he doesn’t wanna hear it, which is why I’m not gonna burden him.”

Fred is resolute. “Look, whatever he did, it’s _Wesley_. You care about him, I _know_. Can you imagine how much pain he’s in, how horrible he must be feeling—”

“Angel’s feelings are the only ones I care about,” I cut her off. “ _He’s_ my priority.”

I’m lying.

Not about Angel being my priority right now. That’s true. But I care very much about what Wesley is feeling.

I can’t tell Fred that, because if she knew the truth, she would never stop begging me to talk to Angel about it, and I just can’t do that right now.

The truth is that I’ve been thinking about Wesley a _lot_. I’ve been thinking about him so much, actually, that I’m _really_ glad telepathy isn’t one of Angel’s vampire-y powers, because I wouldn’t want him to know how much Wesley has been on my mind these last few days. I think it would just make him angrier.

It’s not just what Wesley did that I’ve been thinking about. It’s...everything. Little things from months or even years ago. Conversations we’ve had. Secrets he’s told me. The _deeply_ vulnerable side of himself that he’s let me see glimpses of.

I remember the banter and the bickering. I remember us teasing each other over our various romantic pursuits, but always being supportive when it came down to it. I remember the darker moments, too. I remember watching him work through his pain and find a little healing the day he told me how he was molested as a child. I remember him crying in my arms on Christmas night as I told him he deserves to be loved.

I still believe that. As much as I did that night when I repeated it to him, over and over, as we sat on his couch and he cried on my shoulder. He deserves to have people in his life who love him.

He doesn’t have anyone to tell him that now. No one to comfort him when he cries for what he’s lost. No one to reassure him that he’s not a bad person because of what he did. He’s completely alone right now, and that breaks my heart. As angry as I am with him, it still hurts to know how much he’s hurting.

And I am angry. Really. I’m _furious_. He shouldn’t have tried to go this alone. He shouldn’t have gone to Holtz—of all people, _Holtz!_ —for help. I mean, I kind of get why he did it. He was terrified for Connor, and, knowing Wesley, he probably had really good reasons for not wanting to tell the others what he’d found out. That’s not why I’m angry, exactly.

The thing that really gets me, the thing that really makes my blood boil, is that he didn’t talk to _me_ about it. Even if he really believed he couldn’t talk to the others, he should have known he could talk to me. He should have known I would drop everything and come back here in a heartbeat if I thought there was even one _eensy_ thing I could do to help him save Connor. After everything—everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done together—he should have known he could talk to me!

Maybe we still would have lost Connor. Holtz and that time-shifty demon guy were pretty damned determined. Maybe there’s nothing we could have done to stop them.

But at least we would have tried _together_.

The truth is I haven’t given up on Wesley. I would never. I just need time. I may be angry, but I’m sure as _hell_ not about to throw him to the wolves. I’m angry, and I’m hurt, and there’s about a _thousand_ different things I’d like to yell at Wesley about right now, but I haven’t stopped caring about him.

In a week or so, after Angel has cooled down a little—after _I’ve_ cooled down a little—I’ll go and talk to Wesley. Give him the chance to explain his side of what happened. He deserves that much from us.

He’s family.


End file.
